


The Rescue Affair

by JeanGraham



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 23:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanGraham/pseuds/JeanGraham
Summary: Solo's arrested down South -- for romancing the Sheriff's daughter. Admittedly, a rather silly piece with "Smokey & the Bandit" style stereotypes.





	The Rescue Affair

* * *

THE RESCUE AFFAIR -- by Jean Graham

  
Startled by a sudden noise, Napoleon Solo sat up in the darkness of  
the cell. He thought at first his stout Mississippi "host" might  
be coming back for a little midnight questioning session, but the  
shadowed figure at the door was thin and had a thatch of light-  
colored hair.  
  
"Illya--"  
  
"Shhh." His partner, wrestling with a large set of purloined keys,  
hastily tried first one and then another in the lock. "There are  
two gendarmes peacefully dozing in the next room," he whispered.   
"We don't want to wake them up."  
  
Puzzled, Solo whispered back, "Didn't _you_ put them to sleep?"  
  
"They managed admirably on their own. Fried pork sausage and a  
gallon of warm beer."  
  
Solo grimaced. "Good ol' down home cookin'," he quipped.  
  
The keys clanked together in spite of Illya's efforts to silence  
them. After his dozenth effort failed, he swore softly in Russian  
and went on to the next key on the ring.  
  
"Why don't you just use a heat capsule?"  
  
"I didn't bring any. This was supposed to be a simple  
investigative assignment, not a rescue mission."  
  
"Okay, okay. Don't rub it in."  
  
More keys rattled. "I wouldn't dream of it. I will remind you,  
however, that it wasn't I who insisted on pursuing one lovely young  
southern belle against the wishes of her southern sheriff father."  
  
"How was I supposed to know he was her father? Besides, all I did  
was ask her if she-- "  
  
"Please," Illya interrupted, struggling with another key. "Do me  
a favor. Don't explain?" The lock's tumblers finally clicked over,  
and he swung the door back to the loud squeal of un-oiled hinges.   
It was Solo who swore this time, as the click of a light switch  
suddenly flooded the cell block with glaring neon light.  
  
"Well, I'll be damned," said a deep voice. "Whatta we got heah?"  
  
Illya spun to face a figure already too familiar to Solo. The  
protruding stomach, rumpled uniform and broad-brimmed hat were all  
straight from a Burt Reynolds movie. The .38 police revolver he  
held in his hand, however, was not.  
  
"Well, well. Sheriff Downes," Solo said foolishly. "How nice to  
see you again. We were uh... just going out for a little evening  
stroll."  
  
"Yes," agreed Illya. "It seemed the perfect night for it."  
  
Downes glared at him, not amused. "Who the hell are you?" he  
demanded. "And how'd you get in here?" Behind him in the doorway,  
a drowsy-eyed deputy had appeared, staring curiously at Illya and  
the open cell door.  
  
"There's been something of a mistake here," Illya said awkwardly.   
"My name is --"  
  
"--George," Solo cut in, and shook his head warningly at Illya's  
baffled expression. "My cousin George, from uh... Cincinnati."  
  
Downes regarded Illya the way a farmer might look at a burgeoning  
patch of kudzu weed. "He's got a mighty funny way of talkin', for  
a fella from Cincinnati."  
  
"Uh, yeah, well you see, he--"  
  
"Never mind!" Downes waved the gun at Solo. "You get back in  
there. And _you..."_ He motioned Illya toward the wall. "Over  
there."  
  
Picking up his cue, the groggy deputy moved in to frisk Illya,  
coming up with the stolen keys, a peculiar-looking pen, and one  
Walther p-38 U.N.C.L.E. Special with a K on the handle.  
  
Downes stared open-mouthed at the weapon as it was placed in his  
open palm. "Hot damn," he exclaimed. "You see that, Ed? You see  
it?"  
  
Ed herded Illya into the cell adjoining Solo's, locked it, came  
back to look again at the gun. He shrugged. "So?"  
  
"The letter on the handle, pod-brain. A 'K.' K for KGB. I knew  
that weren't no Cincinnati accent. And I told you them Ruskies was  
everywhere -- now I got proof!"  
  
Through the common bars of the jail cells, Illya sent Solo a "this  
can't be for real" look. Solo returned a sick smile.  
  
"I'll bet the other one's a Red too," Downes said, on a roll now.   
"He just don't sound like it. Some of em's better educated at  
soundin' jus' like us, y'know."  
  
Ed looked at Solo with a new sort of loathing respect as he  
re-locked the cell door. "Wait'll Rose Lynn hears she was almost  
romanced by a Comm'nist," he marveled. "From the KBG!"  
  
"KGB," Illya corrected politely from his cell. "And I'd like to  
make a phone call."

  
"Yeah?" Downes snorted. "To where? That Kremlin joint? I don't  
think so."  
  
"Sheriff--"  
  
"Can it, Ruskie! I heard all I want to outa you! Ed -- call the  
county seat. I don't give a damn who you have to wake up. Tell  
'em I want this first guy's prints processed now, tonight. And  
when you're through with that get back here and print the other  
one."  
  
The two of them moved back through the cell block door, closing it  
with a cavernous slam and killing the neon lights again.  
  
After a moment, Solo's sarcastic voice floated out of the shadows.   
"Well, I'll tell ya, Cousin George... That was one heck of a lousy  
rescue."  
  
Illya's thoroughly disgusted expression was lost in the darkness.   
"I should have left you here to be drawn and quartered," he said.  
  
Six hours crawled past, during which neither of them slept.   
Sunlight soon streamed in through the barred windows, and from  
outside, a loud chorus of birds began chirping from the trees.  
  
When the cell block door came open again, it was to admit the  
totally unexpected figure of Alexander Waverly.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Solo," he said cheerily. "Mr. Kuryakin. Both enjoying  
your overnight accommodations, I hope."  
  
In stunned silence, both agents approached their respective cell  
doors, waiting to hear whatever cover story they were sure Waverly  
would have concocted.  
  
"It seems this gentleman was inquiring after your fingerprints, Mr.  
Solo. Naturally, the authorities contacted me."  
  
"Oh, naturally," Solo echoed, and saw Downes lingering suspiciously  
in the doorway, his rotund stomach attired in a clean (but still  
rumpled) uniform.  
  
Waverly cleared his throat. "I fear I've had to divulge the true  
purpose of your visit here, Mr. Solo. But Sheriff Downes has most  
generously agreed to drop all charges and to keep your real  
identity in confidence."  
  
"Oh?" Solo looked genuinely surprised.  
  
"Yes. I merely explained that many of my talent scouts for the  
Miss Southern America Pageant have been known to get... shall we  
say, somewhat carried away?"  
  
Solo and Illya traded curious glances.

  
"Uh ... yes," Solo agreed. "I guess we do... sir."  
  
Deputy Ed reappeared then with the keys and began unlocking Solo's  
cell.  
  
"As for you, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly went on. "The responsibilities  
of a privately-retained body guard do not include attempted jail  
breaks."  
  
Looking pained, Illya said, "Yes, sir."  
  
"Nevertheless, the charges against you have also been dropped. I  
do hope you gentlemen won't be making a habit of this sort of  
thing?"  
  
Embarrassed, the two agents chorused a "No, sir."  
  
On the way out his cell door, Illya added a whispered aside to  
Solo. "The next time," he murmured, "I will let them draw and  
quarter you."  
  
In the outer office, Waverly proceeded on out to the rented car  
while the pudgy Downes returned their belongings to them, handing  
Illya's Special back last of all.  
  
"Kurry-aiken," he said, murdering Illya's name. "I still say  
that's a mighty funny moniker. Whereabouts you _really_ from?"  
  
"Well the truth is," Solo intervened, the twinkle of revenge in his  
eye. "He _is_ Russian."  
  
Instantly, Downes' fleshy face went scarlet. Illya hastily  
pocketed the Special and made for the door, casting Solo a look  
that said 'I'm going to get you for this.'  
  
"It's all right, though," Solo said placatingly to Downes. "He's  
had all his shots and everything. Really."  
  
Illya's look became more akin to 'I'm going to kill you for this'  
as both of them beat a hasty retreat to the waiting car...  
  
  
\--End--

See all of my fanfic and links to my pro fiction at <http://jeangraham.20m.com.>


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